It's a Slow Burn War of Friction
by CrazyAce'n'PokerFace
Summary: "Éponine will swear up and down that Enjolras is the one who started it; Enjolras will swear on his love for France that it was the exact opposite. The truth, as you will see, is somewhere in the middle." É/E Modern AU. Bedroom eyes smut fic for paigefknarkin.


**Author Note: Welcome to _It's a Slow Burn War of Friction_, an É/E Modern AU. Bedroom eyes smut fic for cosettesfauchelevents on tumblr. Written for the fic war. We hope you enjoy. :)**

**Disclaimer: I am not Victor Hugo. I do not own the book, the musical, or the film, and I certainly do not own the characters.**

* * *

**...**

**...**

**It's a Slow Burn War of Friction**

**...**

**...**

* * *

Éponine will swear up and down that Enjolras is the one who started it; Enjolras will swear on his love for France that it was the exact opposite.

The truth, as you will see, is somewhere in the middle.

* * *

They begin living together unintentionally, contrary to how these things usually go.

Éponine's apartment building is shut down and after a few weeks of living on Enjolras's couch (Courfeyrac complains that she scares away his dates with her comments the morning after, Joly doesn't have room, Combeferre lives on the other side of the city, and Grantaire claims she hides his rum, drinks his whiskey, and sells his wine one the black market, so Enjolras it is), they decide to just make it official and install her as his fellow tenant.

Both of them think this is a decent arrangement and they fall into an easy, steady rhythm.

Everything is fine until Enjolras discovers Éponine's fondness for walking around without pants late at night, and Éponine realizes Enjolras likes to sleep without a shirt and has no qualms making himself breakfast that way.

* * *

You see, Enjolras doesn't really have a physical type, per se, but there is something _incredibly_ arousing about the lean, perfect lines of Éponine's long, long legs that makes him think she could be it.

If he had a physical type. Which he doesn't. Relationships and sex are too distracting and he doesn't have the time for them. Besides, Éponine probably doesn't consider him that way and sees him only as a friend; she'd think he was a pervert if he made any advances towards her. No, it's best to just ignore this.

(Still, there's a reason he keeps running into the doorframe at night, and it isn't because the lighting is horrible, which is the excuse he gives Éponine after the sixth time it happens.)

* * *

Éponine would be the first to admit that she's the kind of woman who likes nothing better than a nice, firm ass, but the muscled definition of Enjolras's chest is making her reconsider.

Not that his ass isn't nice, too, because she could really—_damn_ it, no, she's not going there; she doesn't need yet another reason why she wants to bang her roommate. Nope, nope, nope.

It's just…wow, she really wants to run her hands all over his shoulders and his pecs and his abs, and then follow them up with her mouth and her teeth and her tongue.

But she won't. Because that would be…weird. And dangerous.

Enjolras is the type to take things seriously, and Éponine's a casual girl by choice if not by nature. Having sex would be a bad idea for several reasons and Éponine isn't going to risk their friendship (one of the best she's ever had, if she's honest) by asking him to be her fuckbuddy.

Still, it would really, really, really help if he'd put a goddamn shirt on in the morning and stop looking so bleary-eyed and attractive with his sleep-roughened voice and his stupid stubble-covered jaw.

Just…_no_.

(Except her libido is screaming "yes!")

* * *

She has the girls over at their apartment one day when Enjolras comes home from the gym—and immediately tugs his sweaty shirt over his head and kicks off his shoes, like he always does after exercising.

"Hey, guys," he says casually, blithely unaware of the affect he has on the women in the room. "Good to see you all."

"Good to see…you…too," Musichetta eventually says, blatantly staring at his chest.

Éponine is tempted to take a picture of her stupefied face, but she knows her own was no better the first few times she'd seen Enjolras in his full shirtless glory.

"Well, I'm off to shower, but I'll talk to you later if you're still here," he says.

"Oh, we'll be here," Aimée mutters under her breath, and the others choke on their laughter.

They all manage to wave goodbye to him politely, though, and he gives them one last dimpled smile before leaving.

"Holy _crow_," Azelma says the minute he's out of the room. "Oh, my God, I think my brain just short-circuited from the hotness. Anybody else feeling me?"

Éponine rolls her eyes and studiously pretends she's not blushing a little. "It's only Enjolras."

"Only Enjolras? _Only_ Enjolras? Since when is somebody who looks like _that _classified as 'only' anything? Did you not see his abs? Girl, I have no idea how you are not dying of thirst right now," Musichetta says, running one hand through her kinky curls and using the other to fan her face.

Azelma, Aimée, and even Cosette murmur in agreement.

"Does he walk around like that all the time? Is this a normal sight for you? Is that why you're not a drooling mess right now? God, I hate you," Azelma says enviously.

"Oh, come on, you're dating Courf!" Éponine protests.

"Mm, mm, mm, that boy does have some fine v-lines," Musichetta says.

"And I'm not denying that, but_ Éponine_ has the marble man walking around her apartment shirtless," Azelma replies. "On a regular basis!"

"Yeah! We have every right to be jealous," Aimée says.

"Says the woman who's getting married to Bahorel," Musichetta says.

"Oh, like you have any room to talk, with Joly _and _Bossuet chasing after you," Aimée shoots back.

"Why don't we just agree that all our boyfriends are examples of physical perfection?" Cosette suggests, ever the peace-maker.

Everybody looks at Cosette, remembers the way Marius looks completely naked (it was a drunken college thing and _everybody _recalls it), and nods along.

Except for Éponine.

"He's not my boyfriend," she grumbles.

"Which is probably why you're so grouchy," Azelma says, rolling her eyes. "Why don't you just sleep with him already?"

"It's not like that," Éponine argues.

"So you're not turned on by him?" Aimée says incredulously.

"Of course I'm turned on by him, but I'm not going to do anything about it!"

"What a shame," Cosette says. "You two care for each other so much; I think you'd really be good together."

Éponine says nothing in reply, and the conversation moves on to other topics, but Cosette's wistful words linger in her mind.

* * *

That night, when she touches herself furtively in bed, she pictures the way his skin glistened with sweat, the way the muscles of his back moved, the way his damp hair clung to his forehead above his gleaming blue eyes—

—and then she imagines him replacing her fingers with his own, curling them slowly inside her, his elegant, clever hands skillfully teasing her and drawing lazy circles on her clit as his full, sinfully sexy lips tug on her breasts—

—and then she imagines the sound of his voice, pitched low and desperate with desire, whispering hoarsely in her ear, "Éponine, I love you"—

—and she comes harder than she's ever done her entire life, her whole body going taut as her vision goes white.

Afterwards, as she's panting into her pillow, shaking slightly from the aftershocks, she has to bite her lip and fight the urge to cry, because she's never wanted to want him this way.

She's never wanted to want him to love her.

She's never wanted to be in love with him.

Except now, suddenly, she realizes it's too late for that.

* * *

Enjolras feels incredibly guilty now that he's picturing Éponine exclusively when he jerks off—her laughing eyes, her lustrous hair, the sway of her hips when she walks, the curve of her mouth when she smiles—God, her _mouth,_ period.

He consoles himself with the fact that it's only images at first—the simple sight of her pictured in his mind's eye as he fists his hand around his erection and pumps himself to oblivion. He's not imagining her _doing_ anything. It's not innocent by any means but it's not as bad as it could be.

But then…

Then she buys a bag of lollipops for some of Joly's kid patients and keeps a few for herself. Soon, the way she sucks and sucks and sucks on them has him imagining the way her lips would look enveloping his cock, her dark eyes glinting with wicked amusement as she torments him with her tongue.

Then she dresses in tank tops and tiny, tiny shorts for the summer, inches of glorious, olive-toned skin bared as she stretches lazily under the noontime sun, book in hand while she reads on the lounge chair. Soon, the way her breasts press against the cotton fabric has him wanting to scrape his teeth against her dusky, peaked nipples as she arches her back in willing pleasure.

And then, of course, there's always the way she walks around the apartment without any pants on, the t-shirts that she steals from him barely covering her butt and doing nothing to hide the lean, graceful lines of her mile-long legs. Soon, his favorite fantasy is the one where he simply hoists her up and pushes her against the wall, fucking her hard in wild abandon as she wraps those perfect legs around his waist, wet heat clenching tight around him.

But even when he's making himself come with a muffled groan, fist pressed tight to his mouth to stifle the sound, he promises himself that no, he's not going to be a dick and pressure her for anything. No, he's not going to ask for something she doesn't want to give him. No, he's not going to ever, ever hurt her or make her feel afraid.

Still…even more worrying than the sexual fantasies are the urges he gets sometimes to just—

When she smiles at him he wants to reach out and brush her hair behind her ear. When she laughs he wants to make her keep on laughing. When leans her head on his shoulder during movie nights, he wants to press soft, chaste kisses to her temple.

When she looks at him across the room, he wants to blurt out, "I love you."

That's probably the most worrying thing of all, to be honest. Éponine's not looking for love, and she certainly won't appreciate having to deal with his feelings for her, so he keeps it to himself.

He can do that for her, even though it feels like his heart is setting itself aflame and using the ashes to spell her name across his soul—the look of trust in her eyes when she gazes at him is worth the sacrifice ten times over.

(And he's so busy glancing away right afterwards to hide the look of love in his eyes that he misses the look of love in hers.)

* * *

Things come to a head when she catches him at it.

It's early in the morning, 3 a.m., the hour of the lonely and the dreaming, and she ought to be amongst the latter, but let's face it—ever since she figured out she'd fallen in love with gorgeous, fuckable, and _completely unattainable_ Enjolras, she's solidly stuck in the category of the former.

(Why, why, why does she _do_ this to herself?)

So she gets up to get herself some water, maybe sneak a cookie or three, and she's making her way back to her bedroom on silent feet when she hears a quiet groan, the rustling of sheets, heavy breathing.

_Oh._ She knows what those sounds mean.

She stops by his door and presses her ear to it, thanking God for cheap, thin wood and the fact that Enjolras's voice carries so damn well.

(She ought to be ashamed, but she'd decided long ago that shame didn't suit her.)

"Please," he's muttering. "Please. Oh, God, please, _your mouth_, right there, yes, please."

Éponine's eyes widen in shock. Is someone in there with him? She didn't even know he was seeing anyone. She has to fight down the urge to throw open the door and yell at his lover and tell him or her to get out, Enjolras was _hers_.

(He's not hers, he's not, he's not, he's not, but sometimes he smiles at her just so and she pretends that he is.

He makes it so easy to pretend.)

She presses her ear closer and strains to hear another voice, but it's only his that she makes out, and she relaxes a little. The rest of her is too caught up in enjoying the sound of his pleasure, and she knows she has yet another detail to add to her fantasies, yet another reason to press flushed cheeks to cool sheets.

_Who does he think about?_ she wonders. _Who does he think about on nights like these? _

She's not entirely sure she wants to know, but she gets her answer anyway.

"Close, I'm so close, I'm—I—I love you, please, _Éponine_." Enjolras groans her name and turns it into a low, tortured noise, and Éponine can't help the gasp that escapes her.

Did he just say—?

Then she realizes her own gasp was far too loud, confirmed when Enjolras asks, his tone halfway between angry and panicked, "Éponine? Is that you?"

She flees to her room and burrows under the sheets, ignoring the soft thud of his footsteps outside her door and the way his shadow lingers for a few minutes, at least until he heaves a soft, wistful sigh and leaves.

She presses shaking hands to blushing cheeks, uncertain what to do with the knowledge that apparently her fantasy's fantasy is none other than her.

* * *

Enjolras makes himself breakfast in mild trepidation, keeping an eye out for Éponine.

He hadn't been exactly quiet while he was dealing with his…frustration last night, and he's more than a little worried that she might have heard him. He figures that she has to know he masturbates, but knowing a thing and hearing undeniable proof of it are two entirely different things.

And knowing that _she's _the one he thinks about?

God, _why _did he have to say her name so loudly?

(He'd imagined her on top of him, riding him, full breasts pressed to his chest while her mouth left bruises on his neck, her voice murmuring his name and "I love you, too."

It's that last small detail that had him fisting his free hand in the sheets instead of pressing it to his mouth like usual.)

He's in the middle of pouring milk over his oatmeal when she strolls in, completely nonchalant, dressed in a bright red t-shirt that she stole from him and nothing else.

Or not nothing else—he assumes she has underwear on, and he's tortured himself before wondering about which underwear she's matched with which of his shirts—she seems to like pairing complementary colors from the glimpses he's caught, so she's probably wearing the dark green boy-shorts today.

He ought to be glad it's not his black shirt with the quotes from Voltaire—she wore it once and went commando, and he suffered through an agonizing hour of breakfast and small talk with her before heading to the shower and drenching himself in freezing water.

(This was before he'd abandoned any attempts at decency and self-control, back when he only occasionally imagined her when he touched himself, and _definitely_ before he began fantasizing about being her lover, never mind falling_ in_ love with her.)

"Good morning," she says, her voice still a little hoarse from sleep, and she reaches for the cup of coffee at his elbow and breathes it down.

He relaxes because everything's just like normal, nothing different, she obviously didn't hear anyth—

"So I heard you last night," she announces, studiously looking down at the mug in her hands.

He chokes on his breakfast.

After a few mortifying seconds of clearing his windpipe and trying to catch his breath, he immediately begins with the apologies. "I'm so sorry—that was horrible of me—I don't know what the hell I was thinking—just please forget it ever happened—I promise I'll never do it again—"

"We could fuck," she offers, finally looking him in the eye, completely earnest. "I wouldn't mind. If you wanted that, I'd like—"

"_No_," he answers, far more harshly than he intended.

Her eyes briefly widen in hurt before narrowing in anger. "What, so it's okay to think about fucking me when you jerk off but actually fucking me is too disgusting or something?"

"No, of course not! I just don't want you to do anything you don't want to do! You don't have to sleep with me just because I'm attracted to you," he replies.

"Well, I'm offering, so obviously I want it, okay? You're not a pity-fuck. I _want _to fuck you. There, I admitted it," she says, crossing her arms over her chest and tilting her chin in a challenging manner.

"Well, _I_ don't want to fuck you," he says, frustrated.

She looks devastated at his words. She glances down and bites her lip before standing up and fleeing.

Enjolras follows after her and catches hold of her elbow in the living room.

"Éponine, wait! Wait, no, that came out wrong," he says.

"Oh, I think it came out fine," she says, and he winces to hear the sting of hurt in her voice. "If you don't really—"

"I want to make love to you," he admits.

She freezes, and his heart beats frantically in his chest, because he always knew it would come to this. He always knew that if she ever found out, he would lose her—but God, he's so tired of wanting her and loving her and never saying anything about it. He's so tired of being a coward.

"I want to make love to you," he repeats. "Well, I guess I want to fuck you, too, but first I want to make love to you. I want to be with you. I don't want it to be just about sex. I want it to mean something to you, because damn it, it means something to me. I—"

She presses wordless, desperate lips to his, and he kisses her back, their tongues tangling together in the most erotic way possible, and he groans helplessly because it's better than anything he ever imagined.

She pulls away and his mouth follows blindly after her, eyes still closed because he doesn't want it to be over, please don't let this over, he can't take it if—

"I love you," she says, and his eyes fly wide open.

She's looking at him nervously, but the way he's gaping at he seems to set her at ease, because she grins slightly in response.

"Wow, did I actually manage to make you speechless? Haven't done that in a while," she says.

"I—you—what?" he says.

"I love you," she repeats, and now he can hear the slight tremor in her voice.

"Like, as a friend?" he asks suspiciously.

She rolls her eyes. "No, stupid, like you love me." She gazes at him from beneath long, dark lashes, and he understands that this is as close as she can bring herself to asking him for what she wants to hear.

"I always thought I was going to say it first," he confesses instead.

She laughs and pulls him close again. "You did," she murmurs. "You said it last night, and just now, and every time you smile at me." She bites her lip and stares up at him. "Right? I thought I was just imagining things, but I wasn't, was I?"

He shakes his head.

"Good," she says, then steps back again.

He's about to complain when she pulls his shirt over her head and drops it neatly to the floor.

He was right. She's wearing green underwear, but instead of boy-shorts it's this lacy scrap of fabric that hugs her hips and—

"Oh," she says, and he realizes she's staring at him and the obvious tent in his sweatpants the same way he's been staring at her.

Her eyes are dark with desire and she's licking her lips and—"Please don't do that," he begs. "You killed me with the lollipops last month, you know."

She meets his eyes, startled, before smiling wickedly. "Oh, please. Like I haven't died of lust every time you walked around shirtless." She gestures to his chest.

"What about you and your distaste for wearing pants indoors?" he shoots back, grinning at how they've found themselves back on familiar ground, their banter coming easily to him.

Her eyes sparkle. "I _knew_ it wasn't the lighting."

"Of course it wasn't the lighting; it was the way I couldn't help but imagine your legs wrapped around my waist while I made you scream."

Her pupils dilate even further. "My room or yours?"

"Neither," he says, and he steps forward to kiss the question from her lips before she can ask him, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and using every bit of expertise he has to drive her crazy.

She tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls slightly, and his hips buck into hers involuntarily at the sensation. She grinds back against him before dropping her hands onto his shoulders and using them to hoist herself up so she can wrap her legs around his waist, exactly the way he described.

"So you gonna make me scream or what?" she asks him, voice low and husky and sounding exactly like sex.

He doesn't answer, merely pushes her against the wall and shoves her panties to the side before thrusting a finger into her slick, wet heat, bringing his favorite fantasy to life.

"Ah!" she gasps. He grins.

"God, you're so wet," he marvels, moving his index finger in and out of her, using his thumb to rub against her clit and relishing the way she digs her nails into his shoulders in response. "You're better than anything I ever imagined."

"'Course I—_ohh_—am," she manages to pant. "Your imagination can't—_mmmn_—can't be that good."

"Really? I used to imagine going down on you in the laundry room on top of the folding table so my clothes would smell like you and sex," he says, and she _clenches _tight around him.

"Still—not—screaming," she says past gritted teeth, but her face is flushed and her eyes are glassy with pleasure, and he knows she's close because her breath is coming quick and shallow and her voice is shaking slightly.

God, he's going mindless with the sight and scent and feel of her. He bends his head to take a nipple into his mouth, sucking wetly as she arches her back and moans, her hands coming up to fist in his hair again.

He switches to the other breast and gives her a little bite, combined with another flick to her clit—

"Enjolras!" she screams as she comes, her back moving entirely off the wall and her whole body shuddering against his in ecstasy.

—and he smiles, lips curving against her skin.

He slips his fingers out of her and brings them to his mouth, sucking them clean as she watches with dark, dark eyes.

Her legs tighten around his waist and she smacks his shoulder. "You. In me. _Now_," she orders.

He hesitates. "Wait, we need a condom."

"I'm on the pill," she says.

"But I—"

"Enjolras," Éponine says, looking him right in the eye. "I trust you. I promise I will go with you and get tested for STDs later, if you want, but if you don't make love to me right now—"

He groans and gives in, letting her slide his sweatpants off his hips and guide his length into her.

It's not quite his fantasy, because it's slow and steady and deliciously, horridly controlled, but their hips move together just right, and she's chanting his name like it's her favorite word, and when he whispers "I love you" in her ear, she comes so hard that he follows right after her, his orgasm taking him almost by surprise with how explosive it is.

They slide to the floor together, a sticky, sweaty mess of tangled limbs and embarrassed laughter, and Éponine presses her lips shyly to his and whispers, "I love you, too."

And honestly? She's right. His imagination was never this good.

* * *

She's…never actually done this before, which is strange to think about because she's done a lot, sexually speaking.

She's sitting across from him on his bed. He's shirtless, of course, and watching her with eyes half-closed with lust and post-coital laziness, one hand behind his head and the other resting low on his belly. It's a very pleasing picture and that makes what she's about to do next a lot easier.

She stretches her legs out and begins to touch herself a little shyly in front of him, fingers dipping into her center to spread her wetness over the folds of her skin and the aching, swollen nub of her clit.

"Jesus," he says as he watches her, pupils dilating with desire, breath quickening, the hand on his stomach involuntarily clenching into a fist.

If she wasn't already soaking wet, the sight of him so turned on by the sight of her would've done the trick.

She begins moving her hands in slow, steady motions, drawing out the tension for the both of them. "I used to think about you when I did this, you know," she tells him, relishing the choked groan he makes in response. "I used to imagine that my hands were yours, that your fingers were inside me, that you knew exactly how to touch me to drive me crazy."

"Holy fuck, Éponine," he says, voice low and ragged.

"Mmmm," she replies, closing her eyes, tilting her head back, and arching her spine slightly so her breasts jutted out, her whole body practically inviting him to kiss her anywhere he liked. "I used to get so wet thinking about you—the way your muscles looked, the way you moved, everything about you. When you ate your cereal shirtless, I used to imagine taking you on the dining room table. When you made coffee in the mornings, I sometimes fantasized you'd place me on top of the counter for a quick fuck while we waited for it to be ready."

"God, we can do that tomorrow," he promises.

She smiles. "Yeah?" she says, her breathing a little shallow. "What happened to the whole 'I want to make love to you' thing you were going on about earlier?"

"I admitted I wanted to fuck you, too," he points out, and she opens her eyes to see him looking at her, the expression in his eyes a mix between tenderly teasing and drowsily desirous. "And besides, we made love twice just now."

"True," she admits, slipping another finger inside while she plays with her nipple. "I—_hmm_—I really enjoyed that."

"I know," he says, grinning cockily, and finally he sits up and pushes her back, taking her hands and lifting them above her head, his fingers replacing hers as he plays out her fantasy. "You said so. A lot."

"Don't sound so smug, I had you screaming, too—oh!" she gasps, eyes slipping shut as he teases her. "Jesus, why are you so good at this?" she moans.

"Probably because I've been thinking about it for months," he admits, kissing her.

"You're going to have to tell me more of those fantasies, you know," she retorts.

"And you'll have to tell me more of yours," he says.

"Oh, I will," she says, grinning. "I will."

* * *

It takes a few months, but they get through them all.

(That, however, is a different story.)

* * *

**Endnote: Thank you for reading. We hope you enjoyed. Please review. :)**


End file.
